


Clarity in Retrospect

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: Tumblr Prompts [11]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Age Difference, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Gen if you squint, M/M, Minor Ford Pines/Stan Pines, Rape/Non-con Elements, Teen Stans, Underage Sex, Violence, bad touch coach, stanford pines goes ape shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-16 18:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16500479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: "What if ford walked in on someone sexually assaulting his brother and goes straight appshit on them?"We're about to find out.





	Clarity in Retrospect

Stan is mottled with bruises. It's not uncommon; boys will be boys and Stan flaunts his masculinity like a peacock flaunts his colors. Stan’s colors are just as vibrant, black-blues that pool like ink around his pores, that diffuse yellow-green back into his tissues until his body absorbs the blemishes that water can’t wash away. Stan usually flashes his bruises with a smirk or waggle of his eyebrows, as if each of one was some kind of mark of merit, a badge of courage for being incorrigible. 

Recently, Stan has learned modesty, though Ford doesn’t know how. (Not from their mother, with her clinging, scarlet dress and flashy, blue eye shadow that compliments the bags under her eyes. If anything, Stan has only learned her pageantry for his peacock strut.) Ford isn’t sure why Stan is staying late after practice until the showers are empty; or why Stan has begun to wear pants to sleep while Ford strips down to his boxers in the Jersey heat. 

Ford isn’t worried about Stan’s shift; it’s possible that Stan is “calming down” like boys are supposed to do when they become men. For someone like Stan, that has to be a good thing.

 

“I’m going out!” Ford calls over his shoulder as he passes his mother. She covers the phone’s receiver with her long, thin hands.

“Sh, I’m on the phone!” She hisses at him before waving him sharply away. Ford huffs at her; he can’t help the fond smile as she slides smoothly from scolding mother into soothsayer. “No, no. The spirits, honey, they get restless this time of year,” she says into the phone. Ford shakes his head and continues on his way. Ford doubles back at the last second to check the refrigerator for food; he plans to stay late to work on his project. He frowns at the contents: eggs, a week old casserole that might still be good despite the green bits, suspiciously separated ketchup, and a stray leaf of wilted lettuce. Ford decides that he’ll get something from the vending machine at school. Stan knows just how to kick the machine by the gym to get at least one free snack. 

By the time Ford makes it to the school (a significantly longer trip at evening and by foot than in the afternoon by car) it is significantly darker and he is hungry enough that he decides to seek out his brother immediately. He thinks, as he does, that he could even use Stan’s help on his project. He’s hesitant to allow his brother around delicate instruments, but an extra pair of hands couldn’t hurt to have around the lab. Ford sees Stan’s car parked carelessly over two spaces near the gym and decides to try his luck there.

The gym itself is a large but squat building with every line for every popular sport painted into the scuffed, sticky floor and two basketball hoops that hang at either end of the gym like gargoyles. It has a preternaturally insistent, unpleasant smell that is undefinable yet distinct. It makes Ford wrinkle his nose in disgust and rub at his face with his orange sleeve. It doesn’t help.

The lights are low in the gym; practice is long since over. The boxing “rings” (the cracking, rock-hard mats that get mopped down nightly by a weedy assistant) are rolled up and stacked against the gym wall. The silence of the expansive room gives it the feeling of a creature at rest.

The mats are already gone when Ford arrives and that means Stan should be gone as well, but Ford can see a thin light from beneath the locker room door and assumes that Stan got distracted by something and hasn’t left yet.

Ford hears muffled noises from behind the thin, red door, like murmuring and gagging. He grimaces and rolls his eyes, debating whether he should leave Stan to whatever indiscretion his brother is indulging or risk interrupting. 

“Christ, Pines,” a deep voice moans loudly. “We gotta work on blocking your face.” Ford relaxes immediately when he recognizes the rough timber of the boxing coach. 

The man, who simply goes by Coach, is nice enough for a jock with arms like trees and a gut that stretches out every shirt he wears. He isn't nice to Ford, calling him ‘Sissy Pines’, but he isn't nice to anyone. He's gruff but fair and he made an honest attempt to find gloves that fit Ford's hands and helped Ford figure out ways to wrap his extra fingers. It didn't work out; Ford likes the adrenaline rush of a boxing match, of anticipating his opponent's moves and thwarting them. It's just that there is only so much time in a day to read and research and learn. Besides, he could only break his glasses on someone else's fist so many times before his father would refuse to buy more. (And then he could have all the time in the world, but gain nothing.)

Coach also spends a lot of time with Stan, time that detracts from work on the Stan o’ War, and while Ford doesn't begrudge Stan the attention, he is a little jealous of the shine Stan has taken to Coach, of how much Stan cares about pleasing the man. Coach is one of the first of their instructors to actually take an interest in Stan, after all.

“It’d be a shame,” Coach sounds oddly breathless as he speaks over the wet noises. “God, if something happened to your mouth.”

Ford frowns and reaches for the handle of the door. It would explain the late stay if Stan has damaged his mouth; that might explain the gagging if Stan is vomiting from swallowing his own blood.

Ford knocks on the door before pushing it open. 

“Hello?” is all Ford gets to say before he freezes.

Stan sprawls on the tile floor with a surprised grunt; his face is wet and his eyes are shining when he stares up at Ford, coughing wetly and panting. His mouth is swollen and his slack lips are cherry red (like mother's lipstick). 

Coach’s cock is cherry red, too. (A hysterical part of Ford tells him that energy like heat transfers and he wonders which body took which energy.) The organ juts stiffly from Coach’s thickly furred body and it glistens at the tip and along the shaft with fluid. That's all that Ford sees of it before Coach pulls up his boxers and corded sweatpants from around his hairy thighs.

“Pines,” Coach says roughly. Stan snaps his head to the side and starts to rub furiously at his mouth with the back of his hand. It's as if that snap has broken whatever has kept Ford frozen.

“Wha--" Ford's mouth forms a sound like a question before: oh. 

And then he sees red. (Like lips and dicks and cherries.) Ford feels his jaw snap shut hard enough to make a muscle in his neck spasm, and that feeling travels to each inch of striated muscle tissue until Ford's body strains like a levy under the deluge of adrenaline and rage that floods his system. 

“Ford, what the hell,” Stan rasps from far away, from someplace that isn't red. “What're you doing here?” Ford can barely hear Stan, or, he can hear him, but his cognitive functions have triaged the stimulus around him. Language is simply too low on the list of important things, a list that has become dominated by Coach. 

“Pines,” Coach barks. His hand jerks in a gesture Ford can't decipher, but the sudden movement triggers a primeval reaction and Ford launches himself across the room. Ford's entire weight slams into Coach and takes them both to the ground. 

Ford has surprise on his side and he uses that to his advantage; while Coach tries to recover from vertigo and the ugly bang of his head slamming into the floor, Ford slams all six of his knuckles into Coach’s face. It's a terrible idea to punch a human skull (hard bone has a mass of roughly 1900kg/m3) without the additional padding of a boxing glove or even tape to protect his knuckles. 

Ford's next punch is to the man’s throat instead before a large hand grabs Ford by the back of his vest and tosses him to the floor like a scruffed puppy. 

Coach is pushing himself to stand, shaking his head (he should know better) and disrupting his own confused equilibrium further.

“Ford!” Stan rasps and grabs Ford by his upper arm. “What the hell?” Ford's head snaps to stare incredulously, furiously at his brother.

“I'm going to kill him,” Ford growls. “I'm going to--" Ford's cut off by a heavy hand with a heavier body behind it slamming him into the door, knocking the breath out of his lungs (his diaphragm is cramping). He is spared the trauma to his skull, though he is wheezing for breath.

“You have shit form, Sissy Pines,” Coach snarls hoarsely even though his face is blooming red and his eye is squinting) and slams Ford into the wall again. Ford snarls back, teeth baring primitively. 

“Stop, he didn't mean it!” Stan pulls at Coach’s arm, but the man snaps his elbow back into Stan's face, making Stan stumble away, cursing.

“Stay outta it!” Coach makes the mistake of shouting over his shoulder. Ford takes the distraction and slams his knee between the man’s legs. Coach roars and throws Ford to the side as he stumbles and his knees try to buckle.

Ford grunts on impact, losing his balance and falling on his shoulder to the floor, barely missing a wood-slat bench and rolling at the last second to dodge Stan’s boxing bag. It's jarring and for a moment his side feels numb and he worries there may be significant damage, but after a second feeling returns (with pain) and Ford's focus returns to his environment. 

Ford is at a disadvantage. Even though he and Stan have worked on the Stan o’ War, and therefore gained more strength than most people assumed, Ford can't throw a punch harder than a man with experience and sheer bulk on his side. He could target vulnerable areas of the human body, but that would put him too close and Ford can’t afford to sustain any damage. (He still needs to get Stan out of here.)  

“Come on,” Stan, unfortunately, steps into Ford's line of sight to stand between him and Coach. “He didn't mean it; he won't tell.” Stan looks over his shoulder at Ford, scared and pleading. (It looks terrible on Stan; it looks like it hurts.) “Right?”

“Move, Pines,” Coach snarls. “This is between me and him.” 

“Look, he’s sorry,” Stan reaches for Coach’s arm but pauses with an abortive twitch. “Right, Ford? Tell him you’re sorry.” 

“Not a chance.” Ford grunts as he uses a bench for leverage to stand. “I’ll die before I let him touch you.” Ford steadies himself.

“Jesus, Ford,” Stan groans and his face is doing something complicated, something between humiliation and anger. “Just go.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Coach shoves Stan to the side and Stan barely catches himself, arms windmilling before he finds his feet. Ford takes the chance of Coach’s distraction to grab Stan’s boxing gloves from the bench and swing them. That startles Coach more than it hurts when the gloves slam into his face (the gloves can’t weight more that 16.oz). Ford still has his hands tangled in the string tying the gloves together and he is prepared to use them as an impromptu bollo when Stan grabs his shirt and yanks him back.

“Stop!” Stan keeps pulling Ford backward even though Ford is stumbling and thrashing. “Jesus, Stanford!”

“Let me go!” Ford throws his entire weight to the side to break Stan’s grip but it just stretches his sweater until he feels a faint rip. “Stanley!” 

“Shit,” Stan frees one of his hands to grab one of Ford’s wrist. “Ma’s gonna kill us.” 

“Get your brother under control, Pines!” Coach growls at Stan. Ford can feel Stan’s entire body tense like a spasm before Stan wraps an arm around Ford’s shoulder in a parody of camaraderie. 

“Cool it, Pointdexter,” Stan mutters and jostles Ford for emphasis. “Just--be cool.”

“Cool?” Ford sounds a little hysterical, even to his own ears. “How can I be cool when--” the words are shaken out of Ford when Stan jostles him again and his teeth click sharply together.

“Sorry, Coach,” Stan says loudly. “Really, I’ll--I’m gonna take care of it.” Ford snarls, but he doesn’t resist when Stan maneuvers them toward the door and grabbing his boxing bag as they pass it. “Sorry,” Stan mumbles and takes the gloves on Ford's hand. Coach huffs and crosses his arms.

“Make sure he keeps his mouth shut,” Ford glares at Coach and nearly stumbles into a stray mop propped against the wall. 

“Watch it,” Stan says under his breath. 

“Don’t want anyone finding out you’re both queer freaks,” Coach says. Stan flinches like he’s been hit. Ford tenses, too. He tenses like a coil and then he’s shoving Stan away and he has the mop in his hand and he’s swinging it as hard as he can into Coach’s face. Coach stumbles back, grabbing his face and shouting. The wood seems to shatter, slivers flying wildly away from where the pole of the mop has broken. Ford brings the broken end of the mop back and slams it into the man again; it hits his arm and the jagged edge breaks skin. He brings the pole back again but something grabs his arms and drags him back.

“Ford, you idiot!” Stan doesn’t let Ford catch his balance; he just breaks into a run and Ford has to follow or get dragged along the floor. “You freakin’! What were you--gah!” Ford drops the broken pole of wood somewhere in the gym and runs.

Stan doesn’t stop until the two of them are panting in the shadow of the Stan o’ War. 

He doesn’t let go of their hands, either.

“Ford,” Stan pants. “You,” he coughs wetly and Ford can feel flecks of spit land on his hand. “You can’t--” Ford cuts his brother off by grabbing his face. “Sixer, listen--” Ford pulls Stan closer to get a better look.

Stan is sweating and this far on the beach the thin street light doesn’t reach them, so it’s only the pale moonlight highlighting Stan’s face like blue and white sea glass.

“Stanley,” Ford says. His words feel too solid and hard in the weird place they've made for two weird people.

“What?” Stan snaps, but he doesn't pull himself free. Ford lets one hand slip up to cup Stan's skull. He is feeling for breaks and bumps, but he is also relishing the feeling of Stan's skin and bone beneath his hands and Stan's hair between his fingers. Ford's other hand gently runs over Stan's face, and Stan recognizes now the ritual of seeking wounds after a fight. Stan groans, but it's low and childish, and he lets Ford move his face for a better angle. Ford has already discerned that Stan has sustained no damage, but he needs to see his brother; he needs to make sure that what happened in the gym hasn't somehow changed him.

Stan is bruised but there is no distinct, visible deformity that indicates just what Stan has suffered and that frustrates Ford more than anything else. Stan’s lips are no longer swollen and pink, but there is a crack like chapping at the corners of his mouth. Stan has no black eyes or welts that Ford can see. 

Stan looks fine.

Stan looks fine.

Ford surprises them both when he engulfs his brother in a crushing hug.

Ford embarrasses them both when he starts to cry. After a long moment during which Ford mentally berates himself for crying, for not getting there sooner, for not doing enough, Stan's solid, warm arms wrap around Ford, too. 

“Uh,” Stan awkwardly pats Ford's back. “You okay?” He sounds so painfully unsure and confused that Ford is between wailing in anguish and laughing at the absurdity. 

“Am I…?” Ford shakes his head. “No.”

“Ok,” Stan says slowly. “Didn't, ah, didn't think you'd actually say that, but, uh.” 

“God, Stanley,” Ford shoves his face into his brother’s shoulder. Stan shivers. 

There are a thousand things Ford wants to ask: how long has this been going on? how far have they gone? did anyone else know? 

“Did you kiss?” Ford feels outside of his body when asks the question. He can almost see Stan recoil in disgust.

“What? Ford, are you serious?” Stan shoves at Ford's chest for space but Ford doesn't budge. “I'm not,” Stan hesitates. “It wasn't like that.”

“What was it like, then?” Ford asks. He doesn't let go. If anything, his hold gets tighter. 

“He's just helping me, Stanford,” Stan says after a long moment. “You weren't...” Stan trails off and looks out at the sea. “It's not his fault.” 

“Stanley, it's wrong,” Ford starts but Stan finally manages to push him away.

“I'm goin’ home,” Stan picks up his boxing bag from where it's fallen in the sand. He stares at it a moment, at the dangling gloves that turn slowly in the air. “He's gonna kick me off the team.” 

“You-you're not going back!” Ford says. “Why would you? Stanley, you're not going back.” Stan hunches his shoulders and starts to walk.

“Yeah, no thanks to you,” he grumbles under his breath. “God, Pops is gonna be pissed.”

“Forget about Pops!” Ford hurries after his brother. “Stan, are you even okay?”

“No, Stanford, I'm screwed!” Stan whirls around sharply, kicking sand into the air. The red boxing gloves land a soft hit against Ford's arm as they turn. 

“Hey,” Ford rubs at his arm. It doesn't hurt.

“You just ruined my one chance of bein’ somethin'!” Stan shakes his head and rubs his face, but Ford can still see the tears at his eyelashes. “Ford, he's gonna hate me.” Stan seems to shudder before he collapses in the sand with a groan. 

“Stanley!” Ford's on him in an instant, immediately going for Stan's head to check for anything he might have missed. Stan bats him away with another miserable groan.

“Get off, I'm not hurt,” Stan wraps his broad arms around his skinny legs. Ford worries his lip as he carefully sits next to his brother in the middle of the beach. Ford stares at Stan, still watching for any sign of concussion or trauma until Stan punches him in the shoulder. His fist lingers.

“Ow,” Ford says halfheartedly. Stan snorts.

“After that shakedown, that can't hurt ya,” Stan shakes his head. “Jesus, who knew a scrawny guy like you could pack a punch, huh?”

“We're building a boat,” Ford says. 

“Yeah,” Stan replies and smiles tightly at Ford. “Ya wanna sail away from here?” Ford looks at Stan and then the Stan o’ War. 

“Of course,” he says after a long moment. Stan nods and whispers a quiet “yeah.” He leans into Ford and Ford leans back. Without thinking, Ford holds out his hand. Stan takes it and they curl into each other around that point of contact, Ford's six fingers protecting Stan's five. Ford knows that it will get too cold soon and they will have to go home, but for now, he just listens to Stan breathe and the blue-black waves crash on Glass Shards Beach.

**Author's Note:**

> For Nina. Thanks for the prompt!


End file.
